Cherrypicked stories

It’s that time again When you don’t know Who you are and where you are Looking in the mirror Closing your eyes Knowing that when you open them It...

It's a folk-rite of renewal. Like many, in its original form, it is unutterably savage. This is an old poem, (2015) but I've rescued it from an old hard disk because it reminds me of the clips I saw of last night's ridiculous pre-election slanging match. Image licence Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 2.0 Generic Image source wikipedia.org.

Sorry about that... More of Prospero Vint. Image author's own

A smile How are you? I don't know where to begin Things are different now Things are harder now To say the truth would be socially unacceptable...

The storm last night was Shakesperean. I wouldn’t be surprised if some people were shipwrecked and didn’t recognise each other this morning. It’s so...

The door was thick, four or five inches perhaps and made from iron. It felt very warm, hot even, hand hot, you could touch it but you wouldn’t want...

No disparagement of Hastings intended. It's a character's words, not mine. Image from Flicker.com licence CC BY-NC 2.0

More of this, I'm afraid. BTW, I haven't used Windows for years. Not since Windows 2000. If only the image were bigger. Anyway, it's the name of the pub mentioned... Which no more exists than, well, that tree falling in the wood.

Boreas has been desperate to blow off all our coats. Poor weather forecasts, causing many incorrect layering decisions, mean we’re either freezing or...